


The Other Side

by theskywasblue



Category: Inception
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 07:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1336372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's not jealous</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Side

**Author's Note:**

> All blame (and thanks) to a-forger-and-a-point-man for planting this whole idea in my head.

Arthur’s not jealous. He doesn’t do jealous. Jealous is for people who don’t sleep with a Glock under their pillow. 

What he is, is exhausted. It seems crazy, considering that a lot of his life involves literally _sleeping on the job_ ; but this particular job is still in the early planning stages, which means many, many hours of prep and design, of trial runs and chasing down leads, vetting sources, and arranging escape plans.

It also means that Arthur is living on coffee, adrenaline, and sheer determination; a combination which severely wanes around two in the morning, leaving him dazed and faintly panicked that everything is going to go balls up, and the entire team will either end up in prison or dead.

Eames, though; Eames doesn’t have any of these concerns, at least not that Arthur knows of. Eames spends his days trolling around the city, chasing their mark’s hideously uncultured swine of a brother in and out of dive bars; drinking, smoking, and generally doing things that he would probably be doing even if he _wasn’t_ on a job. And honestly, Arthur wouldn’t even care (see: not jealous) except that his tiny hotel room shares a single, paper-thin wall with Eames’, and tonight, Eames has brought someone home from the bar with him.

Arthur only caught a glimpse of Eames and his piece of bar bait together, in the hallway. Some guy, a little bit taller than Eames, with a mop of black hair and glitter on his neck (what kind of bars had the mark’s brother been visiting, anyway?) leaning against Eames for support and laughing in his ear. Personally, Arthur could care less who Eames decides to spend his off-time with (honestly, it doesn’t mean anything to him at all) but professionally, it causes a serious issues when Arthur isn’t able to get a good night’s sleep because he can hear Eames pounding some nameless, drunk guy literally a foot away on the other side of the wall.

There might as well not be a wall between them, that’s how clearly Arthur can hear everything that’s going on in the next room. There’s the ragged breathing, soft moans, words that he can’t quite make out, and grunts of exertion. Arthur is trying very, very hard not to listen, and not to think about it, but he can practically feel his own bed shaking, and there’s no pretending that he doesn’t know what’s going on.

All he can do is pull the pillow over his head and try to block the sound out. Then, of course, it feels like he’s smothering himself, when the person he really wants to smother with a pillow is Eames. He could bang on the wall, but Arthur’s fallen over the polite indignation threshold; it’s a little late now to be saying anything.

Arthur turns over onto his stomach, and it turns out that’s actually a really, really bad plan, because the movement of his hips against the mattress takes him from resentfully half-hard to   
unbearably turned on; and he can’t just lie there with his cock pressed up against his button fly, listening to Eames’ sex noises and do _nothing_.

He can tell which noises are Eames’, too. They’re deeper, rougher than his partner’s. If Arthur focuses, they stand out more clearly, so that he barely hears the other sounds at all. He pulls his knees up underneath himself, making room between his hips and the bed for his hands, slides his sleep pants and his boxers down over his ass, and gets his hand around his cock, biting his lip. Despite what Eames thinks, despite what almost everyone thinks, Arthur actually has a _vivid_ imagination. He can practically hear Eames breathing just inches away from where his head is on the pillow, so it’s not that much of a stretch to pull a physical sensation from the auditory stimulus. He strokes his aching cock and it’s like he can feel Eames’ thick fingertips digging into his hips, the sweaty flat of one palm pressing between his shoulderblades, crushing Arthur into the pillows with each thrust. The need in the pit of Arthur’s stomach is like a fireball; he thrusts into his almost painfully tight fist, rubbing his face into the pillow, until the sound of his own gasping and quick, choked off little moans actually drowns out the racket that Eames is making on the other side of the wall.

It’s not until he comes that he realizes he must be making an awful lot of noise, because the other side of the wall has gone very, very quiet.

The next morning, Arthur gets up early, with the full intent of slipping out before Eames is even conscious. He gets dressed as quickly as he can, scoops up his keycard off the bedside table, and makes a break for it; only to run straight into Eames in the hallway, with a bag of doughnuts and a tray with two, steaming, paper cups of coffee.

Arthur figures that the best thing to do is pretend like everything’s normal, so he puts on his best, slightly condescending smirk as he shuts his door and says, “For your date? I never pegged you for a romantic.”

Eames stops in front of him, plucks one of the coffees out of the tray, and hands it to Arthur.

“Darling,” he purrs, “you have no idea. And, apparently, neither did I.”

-End-


End file.
